


Don't Stop Believin'

by AvaMclean



Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Supernatural
Genre: Crossover, Crossover Pairings, Episode: s06e17 Normal Again, F/M, NOTHING IS AS IT SEEMS, Not A Fix-It
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-09
Updated: 2016-04-09
Packaged: 2018-06-01 03:47:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,065
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6499579
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AvaMclean/pseuds/AvaMclean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Those who fight with monsters might take care lest they thereby become monsters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't Stop Believin'

Title: Don’t Stop Believin’  
Rating: FR18

* * *

Dust and blood had dried, caked into the cracks of her hands and matted her hair, held it tight to one side of her head as Buffy struggled to remove the tacky substance covering more than a third of her body. A washcloth, once white and now pink with blood, was scrubbed against her body as the motel’s less than stellar water pressure beat at her slim frame. The fist holding the freebie bar of soap shook and she dropped it, swearing as it struck the plastic tub and skipped toward the drain as she presented her face to the lukewarm spray and felt it wet her hair. 

More streaks of rust colored water spilled down her body and she shuddered, turning her back on the sight and dropped the washcloth, lifting her arms, fingers attempting to comb through her hair. There was a thud on the other side of the bathroom door and she ignored it, still fighting with the dead cat on her head and the door opened, bringing with it a wash of cold air. Buffy tilted her chin, sent a tired glance toward the curtain as it was pulled back, the plastic clips making an awful grinding as they rubbed against the metal rod. 

She turned to face him and let her arms fall. The water beat at the side of her head and right shoulder as a stubble-covered jaw dipped, falling toward a rather impressive chest as Dean took in the sight of her in one quick glance and she returned the favor. Noted the nearly bruised color to the bags under his eyes, the nasty looking cut bisecting his lower lip and the scrapes and bruises covering his knuckles from the scuffle he had with same demon Buffy was currently wearing. 

A sigh lifted her chest and she rolled her eyes when Dean’s perusal ended there as she bent and snatched up the washcloth. Her arm outstretched, offering the damp cloth to Dean and stated, rather than asked, “Little help.” 

He accepted it from her, fingers brushing hers and the sudden rise of goosebumps had nothing to do with the cold air seeping into the bathroom and Buffy turned, gave Dean her back so he wouldn’t notice the reaction. The small mat squished under his boots as he stepped forward and began to drag the cloth down Buffy’s back, scrubbing at the streaks of blood that had seeped through the t-shirt and jeans she had lifted from the waitress back in California. She shifted her body and began to pick at the blood and dirt under her nails and scrubbed at the cracks in her skin. 

With Dean’s help and four of the motel’s little shampoos—she wasn’t even going to ask how he gotten them—she had her blonde hair clean and was being pulled from the shower by wide hands and wrapped in a scratchy towel. They exited the bathroom together and Buffy’s nose wrinkled at the sight of two bulky trash bags shoved into the corner of the room as they stepped through the painted outline of a devil’s trap. 

“We need to get rid of those before they start to smell.” 

Dean’s hand tightened around her waist as he walked her around the large dark stain that had spread over the lines of the trap as he offered, “We’ll burn and bury’em as soon as you get dressed.” 

A line appeared between Buffy’s brows as a pointed chin lifted and she sent Dean a pout. “We can’t stay?” 

“Not safe.” 

“Dean, we’re never safe.” 

“They’re popping up more and more,” he frowned, adding, “and we still haven’t figured out what happened to you.” 

She slipped free of his grasp and moved toward the bag, they’d commandeered from the bus depot, laying across the double bed. “The doctors did it. They did something _to_ me.” Her movements became jerky as she yanked the bag toward her and unzipped, looking for something decent to wear. “I use to be stronger. Better.” She paused in her rummaging to look up at Dean, mouth drawn in a tight line before she stated, “I’m slowing you down.” 

With a vehement shake of his head Dean stepped forward, “No, you’re not.” 

“Yes, I am.” Buffy sighed, letting her body drop to the bed as she looked up at him. “I know I am, Dean. I’m just a girl—”

“You’re the goddamned Slayer!” Dean’s snarled words shut her mouth with an audible snap and Buffy watched with wide eyes as he stalked toward her. “You’re not _just_ a girl. You’re the Slayer and the best damn thing to have happened to me.”

She blinked too startled by the outburst and his confession to know what to say and before she could even think to say anything Dean was continuing with, “I’d still be in that place. Still be with those doctors tellin’ me how crazy I was,” he sighed, clenching and unclenching his fists, “I started to believe them instead of myself. You saved me.” 

Her voice was soft as she asked, “I did?” 

A slow, sure of himself smirk twisted Dean’s mouth as his chin jerked down with a nod. “You did.” 

“I’m,” Buffy hesitated, paused and glanced up at Dean before starting again, “I’m the Slayer.” 

“You’re the Slayer.” 

Her voice grew in volume with the certainty she heard in Dean’s and she snapped back, “I’m the damn Slayer!” 

The smirk became a grin, the cut on his mouth opening a bit as he agreed, “You’re my damn Slayer.” 

She beamed and bounced to her feet, arms catching the side of Dean’s face and dragged his mouth down to meet hers. The towel fell away, replaced by his hands and Buffy fell back, Dean following her down. Buffy didn’t know when the next demon, wearing a human mask, would attack. She didn’t know what the shrinks, that called themselves doctors, at Heritage Oaks Hospital had done to her or why they’d insisted she was a schizo’. 

She knew she wasn’t and Dean knew. _Dean._ His mouth found her collarbone and he idly traced it with his tongue and teeth and she hummed her approval, running her fingers through his hair. Maybe those doctors were a little right about her, them being crazy. 

Because everyone knew there was always some madness in love.

* * *

The end.

**Author's Note:**

> This story was completely and utterly blamed on [lightthesparks](http://lightthesparks.livejournal.com/profile) (and still is) who created a nifty, awesome wallpaper that can be found [here](http://lightthesparks.livejournal.com/13228.html).


End file.
